


Farewell wanderlust

by thp_cara (TheHolosexualPan)



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Angst, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanart, Respawn Mechanics, Singing, but it's only in one spot, it's so cheesy man idk what to tell you, it's why this work is marked for teen and up audiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28976019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHolosexualPan/pseuds/thp_cara
Summary: Wels comforts himself as best as he can when in pain.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Farewell wanderlust

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by this beautiful [artwork](https://chaggle.tumblr.com/post/635261212570025984)!

The sun colours the world around him in gold leaf with the rays that still manage to make it past the horizon of trees at the edge of the clearing. It will all soon all turn to red, red like the flowers dotted around that seem ever more vibrant in the warm light, red like the patches of colours trailing against the sky where cloud meets the seams of endlessness, red like the hand he pulls away, weakly, his muscles trembling, the crimson droplets hanging onto his armour like molten rubies, pretty in a way that only this moment of sunset can make blood stains, and Wels sighs, gently.

The diamond blade of the sword, sharpened to the point where even the enchantments lend it nothing more than an eerie, contrasting glow, is embedded into the earth next to him, fingers holding onto it, but just barely, Wels’ other hand falling back against his abdomen, and he cradles the place where the skeleton had managed to pierce him with an arrow. Its bones had already sunk into the ground long before the sun had started to set, swallowed by the fields of flowers, by the blades of grass, but Wels had been too shaky to do more than walk backwards until his back had hit a tree and lay against it. He is alone now. The blood keeps pouring.

It is only with this sort of ambiance, with the temporary lack of a threat, that Wels finally starts feeling the edges of pain returning to bite at where his skin is ripped open, at where he is still bleeding, and he takes a few breaths to steady himself. It’s harder than he’d imagined. He thinks the arrow may be somewhere close to his lungs, having snuck between his ribs but not managed to pierce further, and that is a good thing, but it doesn’t ease the stinging ache of it.

The more he lays there, the more he can feel it, and the pain comes with a numbing of all other senses, it always does. Wels’ fingers are ever so slightly cold beneath his leather gloves and he’d lost his helmet some time ago, which means that the light breeze makes sweat soaked curls stick to his forehead, to the back of his neck, chilling Wels to the bone. 

Either he will die of the injury, which is unpleasant in its own right, but he will then respawn, or Wels will gather his strength to make it back home, where he can patch himself up. Either option sounds a bit exhausting right now, though, so Wels just closes his eyes, immediately missing the beautiful scene of the sunset, but it eases something inside him, Wels isn’t exactly sure what, but the bark of the tree feels a bit less uncomfortable against his back now and Wels lets another sigh slip past his lips. 

Past those very same lips, dried and chapped, a thin line of blood trails down when Wels opens his mouth to let out a gasp when no words make it out. He’s not trying to call out to anyone, he just wants to…

To…

Wels doesn’t think he can do words right now, not with how heavy his tongue feels in his mouth, not with how he winces when he tries to move his jaw, some earlier injury being the most likely suspect, and so Wels tries something else.

It starts as a low humming, more so an exhale of breath than an actual sound, but even when the first note echoes through the clearing, it already makes Wels’ body react, it makes his heart stop beating quite so frantically, it makes his tense muscles relax just a little, and that is enough.

He continues humming, and at first, it’s just an amalgamation of notes, traces of a song or another as Wels wanders what he should sing to himself about, and it comes to him as the wind tousels his curls playfully. It’s getting colder now, but Wels doesn’t even notice, eyes still closed, the edges of a smile curling his lips up slightly, his fingers twitching against the bloody plates of his chest piece, where the metal doesn’t link up, allowing Wels to reach further in and press against the wound as best as he can without aggravating it.

He continues singing.

It’s a song about the wind, about its travels, about its memories. It’s an almost melancholic image, a naked groove being gently swayed by a gust of cold current carried from the mountains, it’s about how it has brushed past empty roads, no life in sight, about the cold, and the heat, about storms and days of peace, but it is beautiful, Wels thinks, something about it drawing him in.

He doesn’t quite remember the words and he doesn’t have the energy to sing them anyway, but as his chest starts to slow down its rhythmic rising and falling, as his heart slows down ever further too, he asks it, the wind, to tell him of what it has seen, the good, the bad, the old, of what lives it has been through, of whether it’s seen the people and their graves and the  _ stars _ .

_ That’s a pretty image, _ Wels thinks to himself, smiling softly, all but holding himself against the tree as numbness and darkness start clamouring to take him, to break the string of his existence, only to knot it back again, but in his mind, he sees the night sky, the millions of stars scattered across it in a display of living shadow, their crystal light outlining the dark branches overhead, and Wels opens his eyes. 

He could say that the image he sees before his eyes is as beautiful as he’d imagined, but he’d be lying. His imagination doesn’t do it justice. The stars twinkle, edged by more light than he remembers, clutters of them coming together to form breathtaking clouds, and the wind makes the branches above his head shake, a few petals from below and some of its fallen leaves mixing together in a dance against the breeze. Wels laughs, weakly, painfully, and closes his eyes again.

It takes him, then, and Wels wakes up in bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell that I really like getting all cheaply poetic about nature? Lol  
> And also, the song Wels sings is a real one, even if i don't give any specifics, but it's not english, so I though it might be best to just describe it as best as I can instead ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
